


Name Your Courage

by UnFunny (Quippy)



Series: Parables of Promise [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adoption, But the Armorer loves them anyway, Din Deserves Nice Things, Everybody Lives, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Feels, Found Family, Gen, I just love them so much but also will make them sad, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paz and Din are bad at feelings, Sibling Bonding, The Child gets a name, pseudo siblings, they're idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quippy/pseuds/UnFunny
Summary: “Din Djarin requires your skills and strength.” The Armorer said, “The longer you remain here, the longer he and his companions are left to fight on their own. You came to his aid once before, Paz Vizla, will you turn your back on him now?”She knew what his answer would be, of course.She was the Armorer, she knew the members of her Tribe better than they knew themselves.Paz sheathed his Vibroblade. Turning towards the exit of the forge he was already through the doorway before he realized he was moving. Behind him, unseen by the larger Mandalorian, the Armorer watched him go, satisfied with the choice he’d made.Ahead lay Din Djarin, and a future Paz could only hope they both lived to see.---In which pasts are remembered, decisions are made, and futures are made brighter.The second in the Parables of Promise series following All Not Lost.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Din Djarin/Paz Vizla, IG-11 (Star Wars) & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Kuiil & IG-11, The Armorer & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Armorer (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizla, The Mandalorian & Kuiil, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizla, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Series: Parables of Promise [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612648
Comments: 98
Kudos: 509





	1. Begin at the End

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of my planed AU series following Not All Lost! I'm not sure how it worked out that I finished this first chapter of this one so quickly and I hope to keep this up but it will all depend on how much spare time I have and how agreeable life is haha
> 
> A quick heads up, pretty much everything I know about Mandalorians and their culture comes from the show and pilfered bits of knowledge I've gleaned from tumblr and wookipedia. I haven't read or seen anything in the EU/Legends (though it's on my list!). I'm largely going to just be making things up as I see fit for the story with additions of very limited lore I find, and even then the lore will probably be altered to fit the story.
> 
> Name of the series comes from the song "Mothers and Fathers" by Dom Fera. That song gives me a lot of Din Djarin/The Mandalorian Tribe vibes for some reason.

The Armorer had not originally intended to send Paz Vizla after Din and his party. Paz had sworn himself to her aid and she’d been content to allow him to see it through. Escaping from Nevarro would require stealth, a skill Paz was not as well suited for, and Din would have better odds with a smaller group slipping out and into the flats before they were found. Paz’s great size would only be a hindrance to them in that respect.

Things changed, as they so often did, when she’d looked into the flames of her forge. 

She’d found peace in the heat and flames since she’d been young. As a girl she’d often slip away from the games of the other children in the Tribe to stand at the edge of the Forge. The Armorer that served the Tribe in those days had been taller than even Paz Vizla, a mountain of a man who moved with the elegance of a dancer as he pounded Beskar into armor. When she turned ten he’d placed a hammer in her hands for the first time and taught her the rhythm of the craft.

Her first work had been awkward and shoddy, a breast plate bent too much at one end, too flat at the other. Her mentor shown her how to feed the beskar back to the forge, start the process again. Making and unmaking, force and finesse in equal measures. 

_ “Foundlings are the future.”  _ He’d told her once,  _ “It is for us to forge the means of ensuring that future.” _

She’d taken those words to heart. Let them guide her again and again over the years. Heard them whispered in the voice of her old master every time she held a hammer in her hands. Felt the strength they gave her with every impact of metal upon Beskar. Understood the wisdom of them each time a member of her tribe returned, the armor she’d crafted for them guarding them from death.

She’d given everything she was to the forge, and the forge had guided her unerringly in return. Surrounded by the heat and the noise, she found her finely honed instincts sharpened to a deadly precision. The peace of the forge had been what allowed her to understand the coming danger of the purge. It washed away the world to allow her to focus on when and how to act in the harrowing years that followed as she and her people scattered. The flicker and dance of the flames soothing away the unnecessary thoughts so that the hum and hiss of her work could lead her to what was most likely to come.

It was what led her to know that there would be an ambush at the end of the river she’d sent Din Djarin down. What led her to see in suddenly clarity that there would likely be too many for him and his party to survive alone. Paz with his strength and skill would be needed. The larger Mandalorian had wanted to follow anyway, had only been stopped by the duty he’d taken to aid her.

She sent the heavy infantry Mandalorian off with only a little convincing, content to know that with his aid Din would survive, and prepared for those that were coming to her.

The Storm Troopers in the halls leading to the covert were not a surprise, even if they thought themselves such as they swept into her forge to find her alone, kneeling with her tools in hand. There were enough of them that they might have been troublesome -  _ We have you four to one _ , where had she’d heard those words, in a lost thought while forging a pauldron? In a whisper nearly lost beneath the pounding of a breastplate coming to life beneath her hands? - but she was more than equal to the task of defeating them.

_ Four to one,  _ the Armorer considered as as a Storm Trooper butted her helmet with the business end of his blaster.  _ I like those odds _ , she decided as she fed one of them head first into her forge.

Their armor gave them protection from most blaster shots and would resist the dangers of a vibroblade. But tools meant to work Beskar into shape and withstand the heat of a forge so hot where different weapons altogether, especially in skilled hands. Ultimately the fight was over quickly, which was as convenient as the bodies left laying at her feet were not.

Time she would have rather use getting back to her work was spent on hauling the bodies into carts to be taken down to the molten river later. Incineration was the easiest means of disposal, and she’d already desecrated her forge with the unworth body of one Storm Trooper as it was. Once she scoured the mess and returned the sanctity to her forge she could begin on crafting the mold for her project.

Din Djarin’s Clan was not yet complete. And though there would be no new additions to it just yet, there would be those close enough to it to earn honoring. Beneath her golden Helm the Armorer smiled. Around her the forge hummed.

* * *

Kuiil had heard stories of the Mandalorians all his life.

Proud people, warriors and conquerors who spread so wide across the galaxy that they had very nearly ruled it all. A far cry from the Ugnaughts Kuiil came from, broken and enslaved for so many centuries they’d forgotten what freedom was. The Mandalorians were something of a dream to him, when he’d been young, as they had been to many of his kind. What they represented - that wild freedom that could never be broken or bent - had been a whispered ideal that he and many of his people had strived for.

Meeting a Mandalorian in person - stubborn and a bit impatient, and overwhelmingly  _ real _ \- had not destroyed the image of the people Kuiil had conjured over his many years. Though it had cast them in a new light. They were as determined and strong as all the stories had made them out to be - if the one he met was any indication - but they were not without their faults. They were as failable as anyone else, if more collected in their failures.

The Mandalorian was grown by the standards of most, but as Kuiil spoke with him in those early days he saw too much of his eldest sons’ stubbornness and impatience. Too much of his youngest’s wide eyed trust. He looked at the Mandalorian - bedecked in fine armor and deadly even without his many weapons - and saw not a warrior grown, but a lad still getting his footing. The stirrings of fatherly instincts Kuiil had thought died with his children long ago take root in his chest in the weeks following the Mandalorian’s arrival to his home. When the lad had returned with his prize - a tiny, fragile child - Kuiil felt that fatherly fondness in him only grow.

The Mandalorian was young, to Kuiil if to no one else, and suffered from the same afflictions all young trying to prove themselves suffered. Bravado and impatience, a stubborn pride hiding the uncertainty beneath in the same way his Beskar hid his face. Kuiil saw him all the same. The young man needed guidance, and guidance Kuiil would provide, even if the Mandalorian thought he didn’t want it.

Kuiil knew before the Mando did that the little one would be staying with the Beskar clad man. Whoever had been hiring the hunters to kill the child would not have the boy. Kuiil saw beneath the shining helm and the stoic sense of duty to the young man’s own protective fondness for the little one and understood the feelings he glimpsed there all too well.

“Good luck with the Child.” He told the Mandalorian as they left. He tried not to think of his children, long gone from him, and thought of them anyway as he set his gaze on the young man and the child in the warrior’s care. 

There was a reward in being a father, he’d learned. Even after all the troubles and trials of raising them, the agony of out living them, Kuiil would never have given up the chance to raise the three children he’d been blessed with. His two proud sons, his wild daughter. They’d been the only happiness he’d had in his life, his memories of them the only thing that brought him peace now that he had his freedom. His heart clenched, and glancing up one last time at the Mandalorian he gave the young man his hope though he knew it wouldn’t be understood the way he meant it. Not yet at least, but he had faith the warrior would understand one day. “May it survive and bring you a handsome reward.”

When the Mandalorian and the Child returned months later, on the run and desperate for the hope of finding peace, Kuiil had joined them without a thought. His best days were long behind him, and the skills he could offer of limited use in any kind of battle, but he would do what he could and join them in their venture. He packed everything he thought useful and left his home behind. IG, a new kind of child to raise, trailing behind not entirely welcomed by the Mandalorian but able and willing to aid where the droid could.

Kuiil was at peace with the fact that he would not survive. 

He was too old, too slow. He had never been a fighter to begin with - a tragedy of a fact that had cost him so much in his life - and time had not changed the core part of who he was. His hands were made for work and labor, not to wield a blaster or end a life. The best he could hope for was that he’d be able to do something of worth, something that would help ensure the survival of the small family he’d come to know.

Later, much later, he would wake drowsy and comfortable in a small hospital in Nevarro to the trill of an infant and the faint hushing of a modulated voice bickering with a familiar droid. Din Djarin with his infant son in his lap, IG seated awkwardly next to them attempting - poorly - to whisper in his loud mechanical voice. They were playing cards, the hushed grumbling between them a result of mutual accusations of cheating. Din Djarin was right of course, though had no idea that the culprit was not IG’s count cards but the even larger Mandalorian - Paz Vizla, Kuiil drowsily remembered - signalling Din’s hand to the droid from behind the shorter Mando’s back. The child too, a fellow conspirator - though unknowingly - tugging Din’s hands down and flashing the cards at IG as the little one entertained himself.

A smile came to the Ughnaughts face as he watched them, feeling warmth not the result of the pain medication he was given humming in his chest.

Kuiil drifted back down into the medicated haze between sleeping and waking and for a moment as he watched those crowding his hospital room he saw familiar faces in their place. His family, long gone, gathered and jovial despite their hardship. An old ache in his heart shifted at the sight - painful still, but changed, just slightly. He allowed himself to be pulled back down into a restful sleep, lulled by the noise of his family and the promise of happier days ahead of him.

* * *

Paz stood staring after Din and his companions long after they had disappeared from view.

It was familiar. Standing sentinel in the Covert while Din Djarin left him behind. Wanting to follow, to join him in his hunts, in his  _ life _ . Being unable to for fear the Tribe would be at risk, for fear that even if the Tribe wasn’t, he wouldn’t be welcomed in his joining anyway. Left to wonder each time if it would be the last he’d see the other Mandalorian. 

Usually there would be anger, burning bitter on his tongue. Born of the fear that perhaps Din would simply walk away, turn his back and not return. To Paz, fear was a monstrous thing. Terrible and uncontrollable. Something he could only just harness, could control, with the sharpness of anger overwhelming it.

It had been that anger that had ultimately driven them even further apart, of course. Cutting words and fist fights, lashing out at anything and everything Din did. The Imperial Beskar had been a blow to Paz’s pride, but more than that it had been the sign of something he’d been at once expected and terrified of one day seeing. Din sharing tables with those the Tribe considered enemies. Pulling away from the Tribe, from Paz, the threat of a betrayal that he knew Din Djarin was never truly capable of committing, but feared all the same.

There’d been a time, once, when he and Din had been inseparable. In those early years after Din had being taken in as a foundling to Darrow Djarin. Paz had seen the boy, perhaps a year younger than himself, frightened and mourning the family he’d just lost and had known that the smaller boy needed a friend. Looking back, he wasn’t sure if perhaps he only scared the traumatized boy more at first. Even as young as they’d been Paz had been bigger and taller than the other children, and Din at that age had been a thin, malnourished thing. The child of a family who couldn’t afford as much food as they really needed, made even thinner by the ravages of grief.

He tried his best though. He’d never been particularly good with his words, so he’d chosen to simply sit by the boy’s side, urging food and water into him every once in a while, keep the other children from bothering the new foundling too much. 

He remembered a night Darrow - Dar, they called him, one of the most respected members of their Tribe, a man Paz looked up to as much as he did his own parents - returned to the Covert and setting a hand atop his head. Dar had whispered a soft  _ vor entye _ to Paz as Din lay asleep beside him. Paz hadn’t known what to say. He’d felt largely useless at the time, only sitting in shared silence with the mute Foundling as he waited for someone better suited to help. Dar had thanked him anyway though, presenting him with his own vibroblade as a token of gratitude days later.

Paz still had the blade, kept on him at all times, as sharp and perfect as it had ever been. He cherished it nearly as much as he did the memory of hearing Din speak for the first time.

It hadn’t been a dramatic moment. Just Paz and Din sitting in Dar Djarin’s quarters passing the time in their own respective ways. One of the Tribe Elders had given Din a datapad with information on the Creed and their Tribe and the smaller boy was combing through it slowly. Dar hadn’t had the time to formally adopt Din as his own yet then, had barely had time to even return to the Tribe at all with the endless fighting he was doing, and as a result some of the more basic principles of their ways had been left to others in the Tribe to handle in the meantime.

Paz had been passing his time by playing  _ cu’bikad  _ against the board’s AI. He was determined to beat his older sister the next time they played, still smarting from his last overwhelming defeat against her. He shifted around the holographic cube, reaching for one of the knives in the block, when a small, croaking voice pulled his attention away.

“Not that one.”

He turned, startled, to find that Din was watching him with large dark eyes. For a long moment he could just stand there, frozen in place not sure if the other boy had actually spoken or if the silence of the room had finally gotten to him. Din shifted under his stare, eyes dropping awkwardly to the datapad in his hands as he tugged at the sleeves of his tunic. “It’s a trap.” He said, voice still raspy from disuse. “You’ll lose if you move that one.”

Paz blinked at him, at a loss. A moment passed, then another. Paz shifted back from the hologram towards the other boy. He’d only been playing for about an hour, and hadn’t even explained the game. Glancing back at the board he thought on what the other boy said and blinked again as he saw what the other boy had. He reached for a different blade, turning back towards Din. 

“This one?” he asked, and was rewarded by a small smile pulling at Din’s face as the smaller boy nodded.

He’d coaxed Din into playing with him after that, losing all but one match over the following hours. When Dar returned to his quarters that night - tired and smelling of bacta and blood, but with no plans of going back out for a while yet - the man found the two boys locked in a tense game, tossing bold assurances to each other of the other’s near defeat.

Paz and Din had been united after that, practically one mind in their joys and sorrows and affection. For a time at least.

The Purge had changed things.

Changed him, at the very least. He wasn’t the easy going child he’d been before the massacre of their people, the desperate attempts of escaping genocide. He knew Din had been changed too, though maybe not the way he’d assumed. He considered, standing in the empty Covert staring into the darkened tunnels Din and his foundling had just disappeared down, that what he’d seen as abandonment - as pulling away and turning his back on them,  _ him _ \- had just been a just step back in who Din had been before. Back to that quiet, traumatized boy that didn’t speak and barely ate and kept himself to himself as much as he could.

He turned away from the tunnel, forced himself to step back and focus his attention on the Armorer and the forge and the duty he’d sworn himself to when the Tribe had scattered from the Covert. As much as he wanted to follow Din Djarin into the danger the other Mandalorian faced, he had made his promises. Storm Troopers would be invading soon enough, and he had a duty to protect the Tribe Matriarch and her work.

He moved to the table with the munitions, forcing himself to focus on checking his gear and reloading his supplies. Whistling Birds, fuel for his Rising Phoenix and his flamethrower gauntlet, a handful of disruptor charges. Once fully stocked he pulled his Vibroblade - the one that had once been Dar Djarin’s - from its sheath, reaching for the tools to clean and sharpen it.

Time slowed, each minute feeling like an hour. The only sound was the hiss of the forge, the hum of beskar being melted down and cast into ingots, the soft humming scrape of the vibroblade in his hands against the whetstone. It was maddening.

“It’s time you leave as well, don’t you think?”

He stilled his hands, bringing his head up slowly to where the Armorer stood by the forge. She’d stopped feeding armor into the well and seemed to have turned her focus on staring into the jets of flames consideringly. He couldn’t tell if she was looking at him, could only see the glow of the forge against her golden Helm, the strength of her shoulders. 

“I need to stay here.” He argued. “I have a duty to protect the Covert.”

“The Covert is gone.” She said, head tilting so that he knew that she’d turned her gaze towards him. The Armorer was not one to pull punches, less so when it came to things she felt should already be understood. He nearly flinched at the casual, ruthless way she announced it.  _ Gone _ . As if the Tribe had all died. “Your duty now is to aid your fellow Mandalorian.”

He nodded, taking a step towards her, the blade he’d been working on forgotten in his hand at his side. “Which is exactly why I need to stay. I need to help you -”

“ _ No. _ ” She said, voice final.

She moved around the forge, gathering up various tools and gear from around the room, putting them away with a smooth efficiency. “One does not become Armorer of a Tribe by their skill with a forge alone.” She reminded him. “The Imperials will be focusing their attack on Din Djarin and his Foundling, and to that end they shall be sending forces to every exit.”

_ Including where the molten river met the flats _ , Paz understood with sudden, sharp clarity. The thought chased quickly by an image, the face of the boy Din had once been before he’d taken the creed and donned a Beskar Helm. Wide dark eyes meeting Paz’s own gaze, the memory of that small rasping voice offering a warning.  _ It’s a trap. _

“Din Djarin requires your skills and strength.” The Armorer said, “The longer you remain here, the longer he and his companions are left to fight on their own. You came to his aid once before, Paz Vizla, will you turn your back on him now?”

She knew what his answer would be, of course. 

She was the Armorer, she knew the members of her Tribe better than they knew themselves.

Paz sheathed his Vibroblade. Turning towards the exit of the forge he was already through the doorway before he realized he was moving. Behind him, unseen by the larger Mandalorian, the Armorer watched him go, satisfied with the choice he’d made. 

Ahead lay Din Djarin, and a future Paz could only hope they both lived to see.


	2. Intermission of the Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din was about to argue that - damnit she knew what he was saying - when IG spoke up. “Have you tried speaking to him about the emotions you have for him? Communication is key to functional and prosperous relationships.”
> 
> “I should have just let you self destruct.” Din said, regretting every moment that had led him to knowing and befriending the gaggle of bastards he found himself surrounded by.
> 
> In which some peace is found, much teasing is done and the Armorer is, as always, already prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is complete! I was thinking this wouldn't be done until later due to how busy this week and next week were/are supposed to be but was pleasantly surprised when I had an unexpected chunk of time where I could just sit and write.
> 
> As always my knowledge on Mandalorians comes from the show, pilfered bits of the EU/Legends that I've scoured the internet for and - most of all - my own mind. A lot of the Mandalorian Culture as represented here is just going to be what I think fits, whether or not it's canon/pseudo canon.
> 
> Mandalorian Translation can be found in notes at the end, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

They found the Armorer seated at one of her work benches, serenely carving into a mold when they returned to the abandoned Covert. The Foundry smelled faintly of melted plastisteel and burning meat. Neither Din or Paz found any wisdom in mentioning it.

The group had split after the battle once bacta had been applied and they’d been able to ensure that there were no more immediate threats lurking in the wings. Kuill was relegated to bed rest under IG’s watchful scanners while Cara and Greef secured transport for him to a hospital and found a mechanic for the Crest. Leaving the two Mandalorians and the tiny Foundling in Din’s care to return to the Forge to ensure the Armorer was fine and aid her in better securing the former Covert. They’d be on Nevarro for a while, until the Crest was fixed and ready to fly again at the very least. More likely they’d remain right where they were until word from the Tribe that a new Covert had been established was sent.

Greef had offered to put them up somewhere nicer than the sewers but neither Mando had taken him up on it. The tunnels beneath the city no longer held the Tribe, but they still held the Forge and the Beskar, neither of which the Armorer would allow herself to be seperated from. And where she was, they would remain. At least until the Forge could be moved and they could be assured that the Tribe Matriarch was safely in the new Covert. It didn’t particularly matter that she could - and  _ had _ , based on the bodies of the troopers they’d passed on their way back and the lingering smell of the Forge - protect herself far better than anyone else could claim. It wasn’t a matter of  _ protection _ . 

Paz had sworn himself to her aid until the Covert was completed, to do what she needed him to and provide whatever support she might require. Din was willing to do the same, happy at the chance to settle and remain in one place for a while, to let the little one stretch his legs in the security of Din’s fellow Tribesmen.

“The Foundling is well.” The Armorer said as they entered, approval tinging her voice. 

She didn’t look up from her work, not needing to turn her attention away from what she was focused on to know the truth of what she had said. In Din’s arms the child cooed sleepily, ears drooping as he turned half lidded eyes upon the Mandalorian in the golden helm. The little one had been drifting in and out of sleep since being returned to Din, the excitement and stress of the day exhausting the child’s seemingly boundless supplies of energy. Even then, though, Din could see his son fighting against the tides of sleep, not wanting to miss anything happening around him.

Din took his usual seat before the forge, turned to face the Armorer better. “He’s tired, but otherwise unharmed.” He told her as Paz took the seat across from him, the larger man folding so that one elbow rested against the squat table between them. Gently, a large hands reaching out to gentle rub at the top of the little one’s head. Paz softly urging the child towards sleep as he smoothed away the wrinkles of the child’s green head, much to Din’s relief.

Silence stretched as he started down at the little one. It was not as if Mandalorians discouraged speaking - quite the contrary, from what Din remembered childhood - it was more that of all members of the Tribe, Din was perhaps the least talkative, with Paz and the Armorer not terribly far behind. When gathered to a single room conversations tended to be light and to the point. Especially when matters of importance needed discussing.

“Moff Gideon is unaccounted for.” He said, at length, curling a little closer around the child in his arms.

The words hung in the air, an admission of failure that fell heavy on Din’s shoulders. They’d gone to where the fighter had wrecked, on the edge of the black salt desert. Gideon had been gone by then, surviving the crash and escaping the crumpled heap of the fighter via a cut hole in the hull. He and Paz had spent over an hour trying to track him from there with little luck. Bad weather and Gideon’s own evasiveness made the trail go cold, leaving all of them uneasy but with little to do with what few resources they had left.

“He will be found.” The Armorer answered, with the kind of certainty Din wished he could possess. She paused in her work long enough to look up at the three of them, aware in that way of hers of the tight line of apprehension running through him. “It will take him more time to recoup than it will take the Tribe to recover and prepare.”

It was a statement of fact, her resolve as unbreakable as the Beskar she forged. Din allowed the reassurance to comfort him, the promise that despite all he had brought down upon them, the Tribe would still stand by him and his son. He turned his attention to the toddler in his arms, round green cheek pressed against the unpainted Beskar breastplate, one clawed hand curled around the strap of his rifle were it lay across his chest. Paz ran a finger over a ridge of the little one’s large ears before retreating, allowing Din to pull his son a little closer.

Sleep, with Paz’s aid, had come out victorious in the fight. His  _ ad’ika’s _ eyes had closed finally, soft breath coming a little deeper. He was safe, and would remain so as long as the Tribe lived, even if Din should one day fall, his son would remain cherished and safe. It was a comfort he hadn’t been aware he’d been missing while on the run until that moment. A tightness in his chest he hadn’t quite been aware of unraveled, relief making him feel lighter, his breathing easier

“Does he have a name?” Paz asked, rough voice lowered enough as to not risk waking the sleeping infant.

Din shook his head.

“No.” He admitted, some guilt lancing through him. “I wasn’t sure if he had one already.” His son shifted in his arms, a soft whisper quiet snore leaving him to be muffled against the fabric of the blanket he was wrapped in. Din carefully adjusted his sleeping son to be better protected against a chill not present in the warmth of the foundry.

The Armorer set the mold she was working on down and turned her attention fully on them. “Soon.” She said, knowing and certain and - Din knew - probably right.

He didn’t think he’d ever heard the Armorer upset, he considered as he watched the light of the forge glint off her ornate Helm. Even as he cast his mind back to childhood - to times he’d rather not think about - his mind came to a blank. She’d always been a font of calm in the face of chaos, a port anchoring the turbulent lives of the Tribe against oncoming calamity. Even as a Foundling, new and unsure of his new world, Din had never once questioned her decisiveness. He followed her orders along with everyone else with total confidence in her abilities and her wisdom. 

She’d become Armorer of the Tribe young - only fifteen when her mentor was killed and she’d taken up his hammer in his stead. She was four years younger than Din and yet there’d been no doubt in his mind that hers was the voice most reasonable to follow. Never once had there been doubt on the matter. She was best to lead, the one capable of forging their way towards the future and away from the horrors they had escaped, and so they would follow.

“Din and his Foundling require rest.” The Armorer told Paz, “There will be space for them in your quarters. Can I trust there will be no objection to the three of you sharing a room for the time being?” At the agreement of the two Mandalorians she gave a decisive nod, “There are some ration packs for them as well, though Greef Karga should be amiable to providing food of better quality later.”

Paz stood, understanding the dismissal for what it was, and Din followed suit. He was unequal to the task of arguing with the Tribe Matriarch even when he wasn’t exhausted, and had no intention of doing so anyway. Between the day of fighting and the months of being on the run he was worn thin, and a bed in the comfort of his fellow Mandalorians - even an uncomfortable cot - was a luxury he would not turn down. A meal wouldn’t be objected to either. He wasn’t certain the last time he’d eaten. He’d forgone food the night of camping before for lack of privacy to remove his helm, and prior to that his memory went a bit hazy. When they’d picked up Kuiil? Before then?

The child in his arms squirmed, face wrinkling as he nearly rose from sleep before burrowing in further into his swaddling. He hoped that the child didn’t fall into the coma-like state he had after the incident with the mudhorn, but feared it was inevitable after what the little one had done to protect them against the fire trooper. That he’d even been awake at all afterwards was miracle enough.

“I set up next to the forge after everyone scattered.” Paz explained as he led Din the short path to the small side chamber. A tattered curtain had been hung up for the sake of privacy and beyond it lay the bare bones of Paz’s temporary sleeping quarters. “I was told I take up too much space in the Foundry.” The larger Mandalorian joked, moving to setup some semblance of a crib for the little one out of a crate and some spare blankets.

Din huffed something close to a tired chuckle from beneath his Helm, trying to imagine The Armorer and Paz sharing the Forge as quarters. There’d been long stretches of time after the Purge when all the children of the Tribe would be hidden together to sleep in cramped but protected spaces while the adults of the Tribe kept watch. Din would inevitably get pulled into the pile with Paz and the rest of the Vizla children, more often than not waking to Paz half smothering him or with the long hair of Vali - Paz’s elder sister - in his mouth. The Armorer, even then, remained steadfast with whatever counted as a Foundry at the time, and no amount of arguing from her mentor or begging from the elders would see her removed from the Forge. Remembering Paz’s snoring, he thought the Armorer had been wise to insist he find a sleeping space elsewhere.

“Thank you.” He said as Paz settled the makeshift crib down beside the cot. Din stepped forward to stand beside him, settling the little one in as carefully as he could. “He’ll have a new cradle before long, Kuiil was already sketching plans before we left.”

“He seemed like good people.” Paz said and Din found his head snapped up to look up at his companion. Surprised at the - from Paz at least - high praise for someone outside the Tribe. The Ugnaught must have impressed him. Seeing Din’s surprise Paz shrugged. “He was willing to die to protect a Foundling, that’s no small thing.”

Din couldn’t argue with that.

He gingerly took a space on the cot, easing himself down as carefully as he could. Paz grabbed a small chair by the table and set it so he sat across from Din, the makeshift crib between them. As the larger Mandalorian settled Din found himself washed with a nostalgia he didn’t think himself capable of as the fact that he and Paz would be sharing a living space again settled in. 

“It’ll be like old times.” He observed, “Stars know how me and the kid are going to sleep with your snoring rattling the entire sewer.”

Paz snorted and, grabbing a ration pack from a nearby table, chucked it at Din’s head in response. Din let it hit him, too tired for anything else, and began removing his armor. His movements were slow and a bit stiff, pain dull and deep rattled through him as he forced his body to move. The bacta had dealt with the worst of the injuries, but time and rest would be needed to get him back into any kind of fighting shape.

“How are you doing?” Paz asked, concern in his voice. It felt strange to hear Paz’s worry for him. They’d settled into a pattern of antagonism at some point over the years and never pulled themselves out of it. Din let himself feel hope that perhaps they could start working back to where they’d been before. When their friendship had been soul deep and unshakable. “The Shock Trooper, Cara, said you got hit by an EWeb?”

“Its generator.” Din corrected with a shrug, glad Paz couldn’t see the wince the motion caused. It was probably best not to mention that he’d nearly died. Not yet at least. “One of the Troopers blew it up to keep me from shooting them with it. Damn thing hit harder than the mudhorn.”

The conversation lapsed, a silence that somehow felt comfortable settled between them. Paz leaning forward in his seat to stare down at the sleeping little one as Din stripped down to his under tunic and helmet. The peacefulness of it all felt jarring and strange, how long had it been since they’d been in a room together without breaking out into a fight? How long had it been since the two of them had been able to simply sit in each other’s company, enjoy the silence that settled between them, felt the security of each other’s presence?  _ Too long _ , of course, was the answer to that. Din hadn’t let himself miss it until that moment.

“You know,” Paz finally said, soft and contemplative. “I never thought you would take a Foundling. Never seemed like something that you found interest in. You were so focused on getting out of the Covert, on Hunting.”

Din dropped the bracer he’d just removed quietly beside the rest of his armor, feeling the weight of Paz’s words. A year ago he’d taken them as a challenge, or an insult. The Creed held family above all else, Foundlings where the future and the Tribe’s focus lay with the care and protection of the Tribe’s children. Din had dedicated himself over the years to providing for them - tithes of credits to the Armorer, sometimes when he was fortunate, Beskar to sponsor them - but he’d never taken steps to take one in himself. Fatherhood, he decided long ago, was something he was ill suited for. 

Then of course, he found himself in the possession of the most sought after child in the galaxy, on the run and desperate to keep the kid alive. The Armorer’s decree that he was the child’s father - a truth he’d been running from nearly as long as he’d been running from the Bounty Hunters - had made it real. Made it something he could not ignore any longer.

“That makes two of us.” He admitted to the quiet of the room.

He shifted so that sat across Paz, the impromptu cradle between them not a barrier but a bridge. He peered down at the sleeping toddler, his  _ son _ , and let the sight sooth what remaining tension was held in his body away. The child breathed steady and slow, eyes fluttering beneath green lids as the little one dreamed. Din tugged away his gloves and, as gentle as he could, brushed a finger lightly over the one of the baby’s round cheeks. A small green hand reached up and curled around the digit out of instinct, the child holding on to him even as he slept on undisturbed. Din felt like his heart might break. 

“I have no idea how I’m going to do this.” He admitted, so soft that he wasn’t even certain Paz could hear. A heavy hand reached out and settled gently over Din’s wrist, Paz giving a reassuring squeeze, glove rough and reassuring against Din’s exposed skin.

“I don’t know much about being a parent,” Paz said, voice dipped low and soft to match Din’s own hushed tone, “But I know enough to say that you’re going to be fine.  _ Better _ than fine, even. You’re already a good father to him” Another reassuring squeeze, and Din brought his helmeted gaze up to meet the gaze of Paz’s visor. “You’re  _ Buir _ would be proud of you.”

Paz’s words hit like a tidal wave, hard and heavy, threatening to drown him.

He’d not thought of his  _ Buir _ since he’d handed the child over to the client. Hadn’t  _ let _ himself, not with such a heavy sin as giving up a child to its enemies weighing upon him. His  _ Buir _ who had saved his life, protected him and raised him, gave him a place in the Tribe, gave him a family again. His  _ Buir _ who had died to ensure the Tribe’s survival, to ensure that Din made it out alive and safe. 

What would he have thought of Din then? Giving up a child off to be harmed, to be  _ killed _ . The man who had lived and died by the Creed, who - in those short years Din had been his son - had loved Din fiercely and unconditionally. 

Hearing Paz’s assurance was almost more than Din could handle in the moment, exhausted as he was. The knowledge that Paz thought Din’s father would find pride in him, despite all his shortcomings and mistakes, was enough to make his eyes burn behind his Helm. Grief and absolution twining in his chest, robbing him of breath for a long, painful moment. He reached with his free hand and settled it over Paz’s much larger one. 

Paz didn’t speak, just let Din ground himself again with the baby’s tiny grip around his finger and Paz’s reassuring touch. For the first time in far longer than he could remember, Din felt the warm comfort of security, of  _ family _ , curl around him.

* * *

“I finally got it.” Cara said, face pulled into a self satisfied smile. She was lounging in one of the uncomfortable hospital room chairs provided for visitors, legs kicked up on the edge of Kuiil’s much to the irritation of IG as she flicked through a datapad.

It was the day before Kuiil was set to be released, two days after the battle with the Storm Troopers and Gideon, and Din was finally allowing himself to feel some semblance of calm in the wake of it all. Greef had made good on his promises, calling off the bounty on him and the kid and reinstating him - in good standing, no less - with the guild. For the first time in months Din was able to walk down the streets of a guild city with the child and not have to worry that some hunter would try their hand at taking him in. 

Din watched as Kuiil moved one of the swords on the holographic  _ cu’bikad  _ board and turned his attention away from considering his own next move and on to the shock trooper. Seeing the look on Cara’s face he knew nothing good would come of the conversation. 

Against his better judgement he sighed and asked, “Got what?”

“Why you didn’t marry Omera.” She said, bright and delighted as she tossed her hair away from her eyes. Din felt as the tell tale warning of  _ danger _ crept up his spine as her dark gaze landed on him. Her smile was far,  _ far _ too pleased. “You should have told me you had someone waiting for you back here. I would have stopped encouraging her to try and get under your Beskar.”

The absent movements of the room came to a complete standstill. IG’s optical sensors swept up from where he’d been focusing on entertaining the little one cradled on his metallic lap and locked onto Din. He wasn’t certain how a droid with no real face could look surprised, but IG managed. Kuiil likewise turned a gaze that felt faintly  _ betrayed _ upon him, as if Din had been hiding critical information from him. Din himself, was never so thankful in all his  _ life _ for the protective shielding of his Helmet. Without it the burning flush he could feel creeping up his neck would have been painfully obvious he was certain.

As it was, he fumbled the blade he was moving for the game, dropping it and earning the right to have the electronic voice of the board announcing his failure. It felt oddly pointed, for an automatic message.

“Omera?” Kuiil asked, white brows raising as he turned to Cara.

“On Sargon.” The shock trooper answered, promptly “She was a widow in the village we were helping out. Beautiful, smart and one hell of a shot. Had this cute kid too, Winta, they both loved the little gremlin.” Cara nodded her head in Din’s direction. “Omera was on him like a Hutt on crime and he gives her  _ nothing _ . Just stone faced and  _ This is the Way. _ ” She rolled her eyes, shifting one booted foot to lightly kick at Din’s knee. “I thought he was just being a prude or it was some sort of self-denial thing. I wouldn’t have given you so much shit for it if I’d known you were already involved with a big, strong Mandalorian of your own.”

“That’s not-” He started, feeling off balance and hating every second of it. Beneath his helmet, his face  _ burned. _ “I’m not... _ involved _ with anyone. I didn’t - Omera just wasn’t, that’s-” He floundered, all normal composure thrown out the door in the face of the accusation being leveled at him. “ _ Paz _ and I aren’t -”

“Paz?” IG interrupted, mechanical voice somehow conveying emotions the tin can should absolutely not have access to. “I don’t believe a specific Mandalorian was named by Cara Dune in her statement.” One red visual sensors flickered in Cara’s direction and at her answering grin Din realized that it was IG’s version of a  _ wink _ . Stars above  _ help him _ . “Is he the one you have designated your affection for?”

Kuiil chuckled, the Ugnaught’s expression creeping steadily into something teasing when Din snapped his attention back towards him. Bright green twinkled with more mischief than an old man in the hospital ought have the energy for. “That would be the tall fellow here with you before yes?” He asked, too innocent for Din’s liking. At Cara’s nod and delighted grin, the Ugnaught looked decided, much to Din’s chagrin. “He seemed a fine young man. Good with the child when he was here. I approve.”

He wished, very suddenly, that the exploded generator of the EWeb  _ had _ killed him. Death could only be a relief from the conversation Din found himself trapped in.

“No,” He started, “That’s really  _ not  _ \- Paz can barely stand me on the best of days and -”

“So you’re saying you  _ would _ be a thing if he returned your feelings?” Cara prodded. She almost pulled off the look of concerned understanding she was trying for had it not been for the grin that kept creeping onto her face.

Din was about to argue that  _ damnit she knew what he was saying _ , when IG spoke up. “Have you tried speaking to him about the emotions you have for him? Communication is key to functional and prosperous relationships.”

“I should have just let you self destruct.” Din said, regretting every moment that had led him to knowing and befriending the gaggle of bastards he found himself surrounded by.

Cara laughed while Din fought the urge to cradle his helmeted head in his hands. His son began giggling along, his ears perking in delight by the joy ganging up on Din the others found. 

“ _ We’re not in a relationship _ .” He tried, feeling irritation burning at him along with embarrassment. He hadn’t been teased in such a way since he’d been a Foundling. The teasing from the other children of the Tribe had been focused on Din’s feeling for Paz then too. He hadn’t missed it. Though, admittedly, he thought he was doing better than he’d been when he’d been a child, following Paz around like the older boy had hung the stars above them in the sky. All big moon eyes and no sense at all of the fact that he was so incredibly obvious. He was lucky that Paz had taken pity on him and just ignored Din’s crush, allowing Din time to figure out how to smother those emotions down. Not  _ gone _ , but at least manageable. 

Kuiil chuckled low across from where Din sat, the sound warm and comforting despite the cause of it. Reminding Din, a little painfully, of his  _ Buir’s _ rumbling laughs. Kuiil pulled a blade from the  _ cu’bikad _ board, expression that same knowing look he had the day he’d seen Din and the little one off that first time. The look that said he knew exactly what was going to happen and was waiting patiently for Din to catch up. The Ugnaught considered the board for a moment, before pointing the blade at Din with faux sternness. 

“I approve.” He said again with such finanility that Din knew exactly what to expect next. Kuiil drove the blade into place and the board lit up in response, the computerized voice of the AI declaring the Ugnaught the winner of the match. “I have spoken.”

* * *

The Foundry, a place of creation, was never quite. There was always the crackling his of the flames, the ringing of metal upon metal, the shuffle of the Armorer at work. Din wasn’t certain when the Tribe Matriarch slept, or if she even did. There were species who’s requirement for sleep was so minimal as to not be noticeable at all by the rest of the galaxy, and there was always the possibility she might be of their ilk. Though he remembered before she’d taken the Creed and donned her Helm that she’d been at least human looking as a child.

Din took his normal place before the Forge, hands on knees as he stared into the flames. The Armorer didn’t acknowledge him as she laddeled molten Beskar into a mold, waiting for him to speak in that way that told she could see his troubles bleeding through his armor. He clenched and released his hold on his knees, trying to find his voice, as she began filling another mold.

Distantly, he heard the rumble of Paz’s voice coaxing the little one to sleep, the faintest coo of the child managing to find a way through the muffled noise of the Foundry. His friend hadn’t hesitated to take the little one when Din had appeared an hour later than he should have been, stewing and quiet. Only cradled the child in his arms carefully before giving Din a nod, letting him know the  _ ad’ika _ would be in good hands and allowing Din to search out the Armorer to speak.

“Kuiil is back on the Crest with IG.” He said, at length, forcing himself to speak. It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but it was a start, at least. “There was an... _ incident _ , after leaving the hospital.”

The Armorer gave a soft  _ hmm _ but otherwise did not speak. The message was clear, it was up to Din to say what he needed to say. His jaw clenched, anger sparking not at her but at the nameless guild member that he’d run into as he and Cara escorted Kuiil and IG back to the Crest. He’d recognized the hunter vaguely though they’d never spoken before, they’d been a Quarren with a cybernetic leg and a nasty scar across his face - difficult to go unnoticed even in the grab bag collection of issues that most bounty hunters tended to be. The hunter had stopped them on their way, hailing Din with a friendly enough wave. The Quarren’s eyes had been caught on the Ugnaught and IG unit that traveled with him. 

He’d given a brief greeting to Cara - now recognized as Greef’s new enforcer - before turning his attention to Din. Nodding his head at Kuiil and IG he said,  _ “Heard what those two could do and was mighty impressed.”  _ The Quarren jangled a sizable bag of credits promisingly.  _ “Give you five thousand for the Ugnaught. Twelve for the both of them.” _

Din haltingly explained what happened to the Armorer, trying to convey to her the anger that had light up from within his chest. The uncomfortable look on Kuiil’s face - worn and haunted and older looking than it had been before the Quarren had stopped them. The way IG, a droid that should not be able to feel but clearly  _ did, _ had shifted strangely on his spindly metal legs, visual sensors darting from one face to another. Cara’s anger had been close to his, body moving to place herself between the stranger and them, more of a threat than the Quarren had realized.

It’s been the smile that had made the tether on his anger snap though. 

The way the Quarren’s tentacles had pulled back, a bad approximation of something friendly, the kind of look people offered merchants when they wanted to bargain the price on good down. Din saw that smile and had his hand around the other hunter’s throat the moment later. Slamming the other hunter hard against a nearby building, blaster shoved in a tentacled face as he growled low threats. What, exactly, he’d he isn’t certain, rage had taken over and all he’d been aware of was the pained look of his friends and the insinuation that they were no more than Din’s property, to be traded or sold or forgotten. That all their efforts, all they’d done, was nothing more than a bought and paid service rather than the acts of valor that they were.

The Quarren had scrambled away, unharmed save for the hand shaped bruise about his throat. A new found understanding burned into him that would be spread to others at least. The Ugnaught and the Droid were not for sale, and the Mandalorian was willing to kill to see them walk free.

“You dislike  _ aruetiise _ seeing your companions as chattel.” The Armorer said, arranging the molds she’d just filled carefully on her work bench to cool. There were three of them, largely of a size though Din could make out faint differences in each. He wasn’t certain what project she’d been working on for the past few days, only that it wasn’t breaking the remaining armor down into ingots for travel. She must have found some wisdom in spending her time on what she was doing, though Din hadn’t asked. “That is understandable, considering all they have done for you and your son.”

_ “He was willing to die to protect a Foundling, that’s no small thing.” _ Paz had said in regards to Kuiil. It was true, for all three of them - Cara and IG had been just as willing to lay down their lives to protect his son, to see a Foundling of the Tribe safe from harm. Knowing that they’d been willing to do so much for him and his son, even if it meant leaving him to die to allow him to honor the Creed and see the  _ ad’ika _ safe. He’d not trusted anyone outside the Tribe as much as he did those three since...well not before he’d become part of the Tribe himself.

“I’d like…” Din started, then stalled. He was not good with words or talking, better at expressing himself through action. The difficulty was that there were things that  _ had _ to be said. Things that could only be done if he spoke them into existence. “I’d like to thank them,  _ honor _ them, for what they have done.”

The Armorer turned to him finally, tall and regal. To outsiders, his people were difficult to read. Their helms masked their expressions, hide away the thoughts and feelings from the rest of the world. To one who walked the path of the Mandalore though, it was easier to read what was not being said. The tilt of a head, the line of a shoulder, the set of a stance, all these things imparted what their hidden faces could not. In that moment, the Armorer stood and stared down at him and Din could tell as easy as if she’d spoken that she was pleased.

She moved to sit across from him, taking her customary place before the Forge. Tilting her head she peered at him, and instinctively he sat up straighter beneath her gaze. 

“You have made your decision then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandalorian Translations:  
> Ad’ika: pretty well known in fandom by now, but just in case it means little one, son, daughter of any age - also used informally to adults much like *lads* or *guys*,  
> Buir: Non gendered word for Parent, Father/Mother.  
> Cu’bikad: Indoor game that involves stabbing blades into a chequered board - a cross between darts, chess and ludo  
> Aruetiise: traitors, foreigners, outsiders, used as "outsiders" in the context of what is being said by the Armorer.
> 
> Did there need to be a section of this chapter solely dedicated to Din's friends/pseudo adopted family teasing him about his crush on Paz? No. Did I enjoy writing every word of it anyway? Absolutely. Will I do it again? Probably lol
> 
> Emily Swallow (the actress who plays the Armorer) is four years younger than Pedro Pascal and that fact is what inspired me to make her younger in this story. Originally when I saw the show I saw her as being older than Din, but after finding the actresses age out I kind of fell in love with the idea of The Armorer being younger and still being the most respected member of the Tribe anyway. I loved the idea that her wisdom and ability to lead is a result of her innate character rather than just her age, and wanted to explore that a bit. 
> 
> I also just love real world stories from history where young women are complete badasses and everyone just collectively agreeing "yeah no this fifteen year old girl is the most qualified for the job of fucking our enemy's shit up." In particularly I'm thinking Arsinoe IV of Egypt, Cleopatra's badass little sister who fucked Julius Ceasar's shit up at 12 years old. I recommend looking her up if you haven't heard of her. Drunk History has a hilarious and great video on her you can watch on youtube if you're interested.)


	3. End at the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Din’s voice was thicker than it had been before, or if IG read any particular changes in his biometrics, no one mentioned it. “It...would be a great honor to call you Aliit. ”
> 
> Kuiil nodded, green eyes a little brighter than they had been before. “We accept your invitation, Din Djarin.” The Ugnaught brought the pendant to his chest, as if making a pledge. “I have spoken.”
> 
> The child takes comfort in routine, steps are taken to expand a family and Din makes a long awaited promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Of this particular story at least, the series will be continuing (hopefully shortly) with another chapter of the series haha
> 
> I've been really excited for this chapter since I started the series since this has a lot of that good family fluff I love so much. I hope everyone enjoys it!

The Child woke slowly to the soft shushing of his guardian moving about the cramped space of their temporary quarters.

He usually woke when his guardian did, and more often than not content to lay where he was and let the sound of the world around him lull him to that gentle place between waking and sleep. At least for a little while. Over the months he’d become accustomed to it being the hum of the Razor Crest’s engines, the soft sounds of his guardian’s booted feet against the ships metal floors. The change to the muffled quiet of the Nevarro sewers was still strange to him, but the comfort the hidden tunnels offered his guardian filtered through the fledgling bond between them and settled any uncertainty he might have had.

The new people helped too. Cara and Kuiil he had already known, but the two like his guardian - _Paz_ , big and blue and gentle, and _Armorer_ who glowed golden against the warm heat of her forge - helped make him feel comfortable as well. They radiated the same protective warmth he’d come to know of the one caring for him and treated him with the same strange gentleness.

It had been a long time since the Child had felt comfort. Long enough that those memories were soft and distant, faded by time and little familiarity to bring them to mind. His guardian had changed that, had changed many of the certainties he’d grown used to over the years. Concepts such as _hunger_ and _cold_ , _fear_ and _uncertainty_ that had ruled him for so long had become absent in his life. Instead new and strange things had taken their place. The warmth and comfort of a soft bed, being gently cradled in strong arms, 

He wasn’t used to such treatment. It was frightening at times in how strange it was to what he was used to. But he also craved it, loved it, wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. He liked when gentle hands smoothed over his head or he was gently rocked in the crook of an arm. Cherished every time he was wrapped in warm blankets, settled down with the greatest of care. Absolutely adored when his guardian would speak to him in that soft low voice of his, and when it was just the two of them his guardian would speak often and freely.

The Child didn’t think he could go back to how things had been before. Didn’t think he could face a world without his guardian there to protect and care for him.

His guardian moved around their small section of the quarters they were sharing with Paz, checking the curtain that separates them from the larger man. During the day the curtain was pushed aside to open up the space, but for sleeping and meals it was held in place to allow them both to remove their helmets securly.

Soft steps moved his guardian so that he stood over the makeshift cradle the Child slept in, ungloved hands carefully adjusting the thin blanket draped over the opening of the Child’s bed to ensure that his view of his guardian's face was obscured. Once his guardian was certain that the Child could not see him, he moved away and back towards the cot he’d been sleeping on, the shuffling the Child heard indicating that his guardian was kneeling before the small crate he was using as a bedside table. And then the child heard his guardian’s voice and let himself sink into the familiarity of his guardian’s morning ritual.

 _“Ni su’cuyi,”_ His guardian began. _“Gar kyr’adyc, ”_

The child remembered the first time he’d heard the words, soft and somber, echoing out in the halls of the Razor Crest. Remembered feeling a heavy weight on his chest as his senses stretched out, feeling at the edges of the old grief that wrapped around his every thought an emotion. The child did not know the specifics of why his guardian said the words, why he knelt ever morning and spoke them to his own Helm. The Child had peaked, only once - and had only glimpsed the back of his guardian’s head, for he knew the weight of the importance his guardian put on hiding his face if not the reason - to see what his guardian was doing.

The Child didn’t know the reason his guardian spoke the words, or the meaning behind them. They were in his guardian’s language - _Mando’a_ , his guardian explained once - and though his guardian and the two like him were trying to teach him some of their words, he’d not yet been told what the solemn oath his guardian spoke every morning was. The Child only knew that they made his guardian solemn and sad, but - sometimes, like that morning - hopeful too.

“ _Ni partayli,”_ He heard his guardian say, nearly a whisper in the stillness of the early hour. “ _Gar darasuum,_ Darrow Djarin.”

 _Djarin_ . That was a word he’d been taught. A word that meant his guardian - and for him too, his guardian had tried to explain. He liked the other word he’d been told to call his guardian better though. _Buir_ . Paz said, pointing at the Child’s Guardian, _Can you say Buir?_

The Child could not.

Not yet, at least. He tried but it’d been so long since language had been something he understood as being for _him_ to use. Making noise at all, for so long, had only brought him pain in the past, sharply tugged ears or hard strikes across his face. It was difficult to remember how to make sounds more complicated than trills and babbles again now that he was allowed - no, _encouraged_ to do so. His guardian and the others were patient and supportive. He wanted to though, wanted to make the round, warm noises of the word _Buir_ , to call his guardian - _father_ , Armorer said, and that word felt right too - by the right name.

His guardian - his _Buir_ \- finished his ritual. The Child listened as his father’s rose to his feet, a following beat of silence allowing the child to know the helmet had been put back on. Content that he wouldn’t upset his father by doing what he shouldn’t, he allowed the growing restlessness that had been itching at him to pull him upward from the comfort of his cradle. He rose, reaching up to tug at the thin sheet that covered his crib with a small clawed hand. He was rewarded for his efforts with his father moving to greet him, shining helm tilted at a familiar angle as he reached out to gather the Child up in ungloved hands.

 _“Vaar’tur, ad’ika_.” His father greeted, lifting him to be cradled close to his father’s chest. It was early enough that his father had not yet donned the rest of his armor, allowing the Child the chance to curl a little closer than he normally could. His father brushed his bare hand over one of the Child’s ears, absent and soft, “You hungry?” 

The Child yawned, burying his face into the fabric of his father’s tunic. His father chuckled, readjusting him carefully. Soon his father would set him down to play with the soft toys he’d been given while breakfast was sorted. Paz would join in for the cooking, the larger man and his father leaning comfortably into each other’s space, something warm and tentative seeping off of them. 

At the moment though his father curled protective arms around him and settled him close. They sat on the cot together, a Clan of Two, safe and content.

* * *

There was a custom, old and not often honored since the Purge, of adopting someone who’d proven themselves honorable and trustworthy into a Clan as _Aliit Burc’ya_.

Such people were not _clan_ per se, but laid somewhere in between _outsider_ and _family_. They were trusted to be called upon for aid should a member of the Tribe need it, and they in turn, could call upon the Tribe as well. They were welcomed friends, and earned their place with their blood and bravery.

Din had only heard of such stories before, fond memories of the Elders who spoke of better times. Times Foundlings like Din had never known. The Purge had stripped his people of so much, their homes, their Beskar, their _children_ . The concept of _aruetiise_ as being not foes but instead _friends_ was one of them. To trust a member of his Tribe - even to trust those of another Tribe entirely - was second nature. They were his people, the only ones who he could depend on even when their bonds were most strained. To trust an outsider though...that seemed an impossibility.

Until, of course, it didn’t.

There was Kuiil. Wise and weary in equal parts, who reminded Din too much of his _Buir_ , even if the Ugnaught couldn’t be farther from the fierce warrior Darrow Djarin. He’d nearly died protecting Din’s child, had joined on a mission they’d all known was probably suicide for no reason more than that Din had asked, and that Din’s son had needed him.

Cara too, had proven herself a trustworthy companion. First on Sargon, fighting the raiders and taking out the AT-ST, then in how fiercely she’d fought with him against the Imps. She would make a good _Mando’ade_ , though he knew she’d never take the Creed. As well as she’d fit in with the Tribe, she’d never be able to give up her loyalty to the New Republic, even if she wasn’t exactly on the level with them.

Most surprising had been IG-11. 

Kuiil had said that a droid was merely the sum of its programing and imprinting, and Din had never really held to that. The fact that Din was right - that IG very clearly had grown beyond the code Kuiil had written for him or the commands given to him in his factory settings - had somehow only made the droid more trustful in the end. IG had been willing to walk through lava and self destruct all in the name of seeing Din’s son safe. That wasn’t nothing.

“These will mark you as _Aliit Burc’ya_.” Din said, setting the three pendants on the table between them. They caught the light even in the dimness of the Crest, the Beskar polished and bright. The same Mudhorn signets that marked his Pauldron, a Mythosaur stamped on the back of each. The Armorer had them already made and waiting for him when he told her of his plan. “If you accept them.” He added, swallowing around the nerves that flood him. The Child in his lap coos, ears perked as big, dark eyes bounce from one person to another.

Kuiil reached out first, gloved hand gentle as he lifted the flat pendant, pinched between thumb and forefinger. The Ugnaught’s green eyes look hopeful and troubled all at once. “I spent a lifetime belonging to others,” He said, and centuries of old pain thicken his voice. “I’m not sure I can accept belonging to others again.”

Din tried not to let those words lash him too deeply, his people’s ways were not the ways the Ugnaught had grown with, and Din - usually reserved - felt unequal to the task of explaining. He tried anyway though. “You wouldn’t belong to the Tribe or my Clan.” He explained haltingly, “But _with_ us. You would not answer to us, or anyone else you did not choose to. Accepting only means that those of my Tribe will see you as someone to be trusted, who they could go to for aid. And they, in turn, would aid you in should you ever need it.”

“This will allow me to see the Child is cared for and that any other Mandalorians will know to come to me for medical assistance.” IG said, visual sensors fixed on the two pendants remaining on the table. “This is acceptable.” He announced without hesitation, reaching out with a metal hand and grabbing one of the pendants. “I will require assistance with affixing this in place.” He added, head turning in place to allow him to focus on both Din and Kuiil at the same time.

Cara chuckled, reaching out for one herself, “So what? This is basically a free pass to come bug you at your new Covert whenever that’s figured out?”

Din felt a smile pull at his face from beneath his helm, “If that’s what you decide to do. Also be good for the next time you’re on the wrong side of the New Republic and need some backup.”

The Shock Trooper’s face turned amused and considering before she gave a nod, tossing the pendant in the air and catching it. “Free backup, chance to join a few good fights _and_ an open door policy to watch you and Paz pine for each other like love sick fools? How could I possibly say no to that.” She grinned and Din let out the weary sigh he held. He was regretting offering the invite to her already.

Which just left Kuiil.

He turned his attention back on the Ugnaught, chest going tight as he watched the old engineer stare at the pendant he held. Kuiil had grown up with stories of Mandalorians, Din remembered the Ugnaught saying, centuries ago before the Empire had ever existed. Tales of Mandalore and her leaders and armies, the great houses that once spanned the galaxy. It was likely Kuiil knew stories that even those in Din’s Tribe no longer had, lost to the Purge like so much else. Cara and IG accepted easily because they didn’t know the weight of what Din asked, the history of it. But Kuiil did.

“I lost my clan.” Kuiil said at last, voice soft and distant. Din felt his words like a dagger, burying deep within his chest, “Five centuries we worked off the debt of our ancestors, five centuries they were born to slavery, five centuries they worked themselves to death and five centuries they died as chained as they lived.” Kuiil’s eyes were distant, pointed at the Mudhorn pendant but focused on times and places far beyond. “When we were sent to build the second Death Star, my family and I were the last ones left. When the Republic came and destroyed the base, only I remained alive to see our debt paid.” Kuiil dropped the pendant into his palm, curling his fingers around it as he raised his gaze to meet Din’s. “It has been a long time since I have had a Clan and,” A soft, sad smile touched the Ugnaught’s lips, “I would be honored if you would accept me as part of yours, in whatever capacity you will accept me.”

If Din’s voice was thicker than it had been before, or if IG read any particular changes in his biometrics, no one mentioned it. “It...would be a great honor to call you _Aliit._ ”

Kuiil nodded, green eyes a little brighter than they had been before. “We accept your invitation, Din Djarin.” The Ugnaught brought the pendant to his chest, as if making a pledge. “I have spoken.”

The Child in Din’s lap cooed, little hands waving excitedly, ears almost flapping for all he moved them. Din ran a hand over one of his son’s ears, trying hard to use the moment to calm himself as much as he was the little one. After a moment he nodded, raising his head to look at all three of them. The levity in Cara’s frame had slipped, and he saw the same solemn look in her face that Kuiil wore, beside her IG’s processors hummed quietly as if he’d focused as much of his attention on the moment as the droid could.

“I sit as head of my Clan and invite you on this day.” Din started fighting the urge to pull back, to stop, to change his mind. These people had been willing to give up everything to help him, to protect his son. They’d fought by his side and seen him well, they killed for him and laughed with him. They were as close to his family as they could be without taking the Creed themselves and joining his Clan. 

“I give you my home as your home, my weapons as your weapons and my name as your name. On behalf of my Tribe, I name you _Aliit Burc’ya_ of Clan Djarin. _Haat, ijaa, jaa’it.”_

The words spoken, the oath sealed. They were as close to his family as any one not sworn to the Creed could be. He expected there to be a heaviness to the words, for them to carry the burden of all they encompassed. Instead he only felt light, felt his mouth pull into a smile to match Cara’s grin, Kuiil’s soft expression. Felt fond affection warm his chest as IG adjusted the Mudhorn pendant in his mechanical hands, holding it up to various places on his body to see where the sigil would look best.

For better or worse, Din had made them his family, and - just the once - felt as if he’d made the right decision.

* * *

“I haven’t done right by you.” 

His father’s voice was soft and a little sad as he spoke, his movements gently as he sat the Child down on the cot of their room in the abandoned Covert. Paz was in the Foundry with Armorer, and his father had pulled the curtain of the room closed. The Child clutched at the necklace his father gave him, ears drooping as uncertainty filled him.

He didn’t like his father’s words. Didn’t like the soft solemness of them, the way they bled self recrimination and regret. Didn’t like that his father had brought them to the room in the middle of the day when he’d never done so before. Didn’t like the change in the routine they’d begun since staying in the tunnels. Changes were frightening, changes meant loss and pain and that all the good the Child had come to know was going to be torn away from him again.

His father knelt down before him, gloved thumb gently running a reassuringly around one of the the Child’s round cheeks. The Child dropped the pendant he’d been clutching, grabbing onto his father’s hand instead. His father didn’t pull away, only curled his fingers around the Child’s tiny hand as if to say he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You’ve been in my care for nearly a year now, _ad’ika_.” His father said softly, “The Armorer was right, when she said that you are my Foundling, and it’s well past time that I started acting like it.”

The Child whined unhappily as his father carefully pulled away, releasing his hold on the Child’s small green hand. The Child tried to cling to him anyway, reaching for him only to have his father gather up his small hands and settle them in the Child’s lap. A small pat indicating that the Child needed to sit still, to wait. The Child did not like waiting, but there was a seriousness to his father that made him stay - just the once, just for the moment. His father paused then, taking a breath as he stared at the Child seated before him. Then he did what seemed like the impossible.

He removed his Helmet.

The Child’s ears shot up as his eyes widened, a startled blat leaving him as he watched his father’s hands cradle the shining Helm and lift it up. He dropped his gaze immediately, hands coming up to cover his face ineffectually to try and not see the face beneath the Beskar. He didn’t understand why his father always wore the helmet, but he understood that it was _important_ and that no one had ever seen his father’s face.

A soft weight was felt on the cot beside him, then his father’s voice - clear and low, unmodulated by the helmet - lifted. “It’s okay _ad’ika_ , Gloved hands curled around the Child’s own, pulling them away gently, one finger tucking under the Child’s chin to lift his gaze up. “You can look, it’s allowed.”

His father’s eyes were dark and gentle. It was the first thing the Child noticed of his father’s face. Followed by the crook of the small smile his father wore, the dark mussed hair. Without thinking he reached for that face, wanting to touch to know if his father was as warm and soft as he looked. His father’s smile grew, and the Child was lifted from the cot, up until he was eye level with his father. The Child’s small hands lifted, small claws gentle on his father’s face. He cooed, unable to make the words he felt at being given such a gift.

His father moved them, pressing his forehead against the Child’s and holding them there. The Child pressed a hand to each of his father’s cheeks, felt the scruff of his father’s beard against his palms, the warmth of his skin against his skin.

“ _Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad.”_ His father said, soft and reverent. The language his father spoke, that the Child was slowly learning but had not yet mastered, could not yet speak himself. “I know your name as my child.” 

His father said the translation slowly, sounding the words out so the Child could understand what had been said, what promise had been made. The Child cooed, shifting his grip from his father’s face to the gloved hands that cradled him as he was moved. Their foreheads separating as his father moved to cradle him gently against a broad, Beskar clad chest. “You are my son, _ad’ika_ , and as long as you will have me I will be your _Buir_ . I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and happy, I will teach you the _Resol’nare_ and I,” His father paused, swallowing some as he moved to run a finger over the Child’s one ear. “I will give you the name you deserve.”

His father cradled him in the crook of one of his arms, the other settling over the Child’s small body, protective and grounding. The Child curled his hands around his father’s palm, basking in the warmth and...and _love_ that poured from his father, the love that was directed solely to the Child. So much that it almost _burned_.

“I name you my child,” His father repeated. “I name you my son, _Kotep_ of Clan Djarin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandalorian Translations:  
> Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum - daily remembrance of those passed on. “I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.” Followed by the repetition of loved ones names (Din’s adoptive father, in this case).  
> Buir - non gendered word for parent, father/mother.  
> Vaar’tur - morning  
> Ad’ika - little one, child  
> Alor - Leader  
> Aruetiise - outsiders  
> Aliit - clan  
> Burc’ya - friend  
> Haat, ijaa, jaa’it - truth, honor, vision - words used to seal a pact.  
> Ni kyr’tayl gai sa’ad - adoption vow, I know your name as my child.  
> Resol’nare - Six Actions, the tenents of Mando life  
> Kotep - Brave
> 
> I was unable to find anything specific on just what was done when the Daily Remembrance was made, so I decided to base it (very loosely) on the Tamaya that can sometimes be found in shinto Japanese homes. The Tamaya is a memorial alter dedicated to the spirits of the deceased ancestors. In this case I felt that instead of an alter, the Daily Remembrance would be said instead to the Mandalorian's helmet, as armor is passed down through families for hundreds (and sometimes thousands) of years and would serve as a tangible link to Din's adopted father. This is also why I didn't have him say his biological parents names, as this remembrance ritual would be focused on his Mandalorian heritage.
> 
> I entirely made up the whole ritual of Din adopting Kuiil, Cara and IG as friends of the Clan/Tribe. It felt right that they were more than just outsiders to Din and his people after all they had done. The idea here is that they are effectively as close to being in Din's clan as they can be without being Mandalorians. They still can't see his face, but they will be welcomed into the Covert (when the new one is found/setup) and can always call on Din or the rest of the Tribe for help if they need it. 
> 
> I went back and forth on what the Baby should be named, but ultimately went with Kotep (Brave) as the one I went with as it felt the most right. The Baby, for all his very chaotic baby energy, has been exceptionally brave throughout the entire show and would have had to be brave to get through all that he has in the fifty years before Din finds and adopts him. 
> 
> This series will be continued (hopefully) shortly! I have a lot of fun ideas for where I want this AU to go (and a lot more Paz/Din stuff that this particular story didn't get the chance to focus on). I'm hoping to have the first chapter of the next story in the series out by next week, though fair warning that it will depend largely on my work schedule and when I will have time to write/post.
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed this story if you would like to give any constructive criticism! I hope you enjoy the story and I look forward to posting the next story of the series soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Mandalorian Translations:  
> Vor entye - Thank you (lit. *I accept a debt*)  
> cu'bikad - Indoor game that involves stabbing blades into a chequered board - a cross between darts, chess and ludo
> 
> Quick note:  
> I made a post on my tumblr (unfunny-quipsunfunny-quips.tumblr.com) earlier today about this, but I have a headcanon that the Armorer is just faintly force sensitive and I wanted to run with that a bit in this fic.  
> Also, I made Kuiil sad, but in my defense what I found out about Ughnaughts in the Star Wars verse is just so god damn depressing, like holy shit. So I ran with the sad, as I'm afraid is my want sometimes. I am trying to make it happier for everyone so maybe that counts in my defense?


End file.
